


Asssassination

by FanfictionForCookies



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Assassination, Assassination Attempt(s), Attempted Murder, Bombing, Brotherly Angst, Death, Gun Violence, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Mycroft Feels, Mycroft-centric, Near Death Experiences, Poisoning, Triggers, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2017-11-10
Packaged: 2019-01-11 01:30:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12311973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FanfictionForCookies/pseuds/FanfictionForCookies
Summary: Four times Mycroft was almost assassinated and managed to hide it from his little brother, and one time Sherlock noticed and helped him through recovery.





	1. An Unexpected Gunfight

Crickets chirped in the calm silence of the summer night, a soft breeze drifted lazily through the window of a lesser-known government figure’s bedroom, making the thin curtains billow and dance slowly. 

Mycroft’s soft snores could barely be heard over the sounds coming through his window but the gentle creak of wood underfoot made a more distinct sound. 

The dark figure stood in the doorway, the toned light from the hallway cutting across the room and illuminating the sleeping figure in the large bed. The man fiddled absentmindedly with the revolver in his hand, it’s cold weight making it seem that much more heavy in the looming darkness.

“Mr. Holmes!” A voice cut through the summer night in a sharp tenor voice, footsteps pounding up the stairwell and alerting both the assassin and the owner of the name cried.

The assassin spun on his heels and shot at the man coming up the stairs, the bullet missed but caused the guard to hunker down just long enough for the hired killer to back into Mycroft’s bedroom and shut the door.

The man turned back to his target and locked eyes with the official, Mycroft’s eyes sparkling with apprehension and cold knowledge. 

“He’s in here!” The guard’s voice came from the other side of the door before the distinctly deep pounding of someone throwing their body against the door was filling the dark room.

Mycroft moved faster than the assassin thought possible, his target raising his arm up before it registered in his mind to raise his own gun. 

Outside the room, Gerald frantically tried to call for help, hitting the door repeatedly with his shoulder in hopes that the rich wood would give way and let him protect his employer. 

Two gunshots, fired in quick succession, made him freeze for less than a second before he had somehow convinced his body to double its efforts. Finally, the door budged and allowed him into the bedroom with a crash.

Surveying the room cloaked in night, the guard first noted the assassin, body crumpled and pushed aside by the door, a neat hole in his forehead oozing a small line of blood while his glazed eyes stared at nothing. The second thing he noted was Mr. Holmes, shallow pants struggling past his lips while he clumsily tried to keep pressure on the dark red stain growing from his abdomen, eyes already unfocused and sweat beading up on his face. The gun pulled out of his umbrella handle lay on the sheets next to him, discarded as soon as the attacker had been disposed of.

“Sir!” Gerald rushed to his boss and pulled a pillow case from one of the cushions at the head of the bed, applying it to the wound and pressing down hard, eliciting a wheeze and long moan of pain from the dazed figure. “Mr. Holmes, hang on.” 

Several more pairs of footsteps rushed up the hallway, more guards appearing in the room and only pausing to look at the scene before jumping in to help.

“Medical is on it’s way.” One of the voices updated, standing off to the side while the others helped Gerald in trying to staunch the bleeding. Mycroft distantly heard the update, like listening to a conversation while under water, the loss of blood making everything muffled and fuzzy.

Holmes’ skin crawled as he felt the hands of so many people trying to help maneuver him to check if there was an exit wound anywhere. A sudden, red-hot, flare-up of pain in his back told him that they had found one and he distantly heard himself groan weakly in pain. Inwardly he cursed himself for being so undignified but found that, in his dazed state, he couldn’t control his vocalizations as much as usual. 

Feelings of helplessness creeped into his mind but soon ebbed as a pain-free cloudy darkness began to sweep through him.  _ No, noo, nooo. I haave to stayyy focussssed…  _ Even his thoughts began to slur and soon he found that he couldn’t hear his guards any more, his body floating aimlessly through the blackness. 

No thoughts. No feelings. No noise. It would be almost blissful if Mycroft didn’t realize exactly what was happening at the moment. But it was so comfortable. It wasn’t hot. It wasn’t cold. He could just relax, rest for a little bit. He could feel himself slipping away.

_ Sherlock! _ The single thought was enough to jolt him back into consciousness, pain hitting him like a lightning bolt and causing him to cry out in surprise more than pain.

Gerald winced at the sudden crying moan that stuttered from his boss but in the back of his mind he was glad that Mr. Holmes had made some kind of noise. In the time since he’d first started helping the traumatized individual, the groans had turned to low whimpers which had turned into Mycroft’s lips trembling as if his body was still trying to express it’s pain but there was no energy to vocalize anything. Finally an unsettling and deathly still silence had fallen over him where none of them had been 100% sure that the government official was still breathing. 

Sirens filled the air outside and one of the guards hurried out to lead the medics into the bedroom, ushering them quickly with hopes that their boss could still be saved.

Gerald stepped to the side as the medics rushed the stretcher in, watching with worry as the man on the bed was lifted (nobody misheard the shout that was torn from the man as he was jostled from one surface to the other), and silently watched as his boss was carted away. 

* * *

Sherlock smoothly entered the large house without knocking, causing the figure lounging in the large, plush leather chair to sigh deeply and set down his tea and book.

“Why do you always insist on coming over without an invitation, brother dear?” Mycroft looked at his younger brother with mild annoyance plastered on his face.

“I heard that there was some kind of disturbance here last week.” Sherlock’s baritone voice filled the room around Mycroft as the older gentleman simply raised his eyebrows in nonchalant indifference. 

“Yes, a rather inconvenient false alarm from one of the people who monitor the area at night.” Mycroft spoke flawlessly, the bandages under his suit bringing blurry memories to his mind but not causing him to faulter in his lie. 

“Hmm.” Sherlock hummed with accepting disapproval, his mind having no doubt that one of those idiot guards could have made a bumbling mistake like that. 

“Now, if you’re quite through with intruding, I do have a schedule to keep.” Mycroft kept his tone cold and even, his voice giving no indication to the pain starting to grow throughout his torso. 

Sherlock studied him for a few seconds longer, eyes flickering across Mycroft and the room, trying to deduce if he had missed anything. With nothing else to be found though, Sherlock rolled his eyes and left as swiftly as he had come, the front door slamming behind him as Mycroft took a calming breath before returning to his novel and slightly-cooled tea.


	2. Ambush

“Mr. Holmes, in here!” A security detail waved the gentleman into an open door, heavy gunfire whistling past their ears and shaking the air like thunder, closing the door swiftly behind them.

Mycroft coughed the dust out of his lungs before taking care to brush his suit off as best he could and straighten his hair, looking around the large, cluttered closet room before focusing his attention on the personnel in front of the door.

“It was an ambush!” The attendant spoke in a dumbfounded manner to himself, glaring at the door. Mycroft sighed at the man’s ability to state the obvious but knew that the guard wasn’t speaking to him at the moment. He glanced over the officer and quickly deduced that he had a fairly happy life at home with his wife and three children, although the new puppy he’d just gotten for them hadn’t been a walk in the park. Martin Green; the metal nametag on his suit had small dents and dings in it, suggesting that he had done this job for at least three years… no, the top left corner was oxidizing just a little- make that four years. But he loved his job and was proud of it.

Mycroft looked around the room again, noting that there were no windows or alternative exits. _Trapped._ His brain made a cacophony of sighs at the deduction, eyes pivoting back to the single door leading to the chaos in the dusty streets of the unnamed town in Afghanistan.

“Sir, we have to get you out of here… Sir!” Green had turned to observe Mycroft but let out an exclamation of surprise when he saw a dark hole through the government man’s left shoulder, an unmistakeable bullet hole.

Mycroft looked at the man with his eyebrows raised, as if waiting expectedly for the frazzled officer to panic further.

“My adrenaline is doing quite a sufficient job at keeping the pain at bay. A simple gunshot wound such as this is certainly not our top priority at the moment anyway, correct?” Mycroft’s cool tone refocused Martin, earning a somber nod from him.

“They must be here to attack the convention going on.” The officer’s lips grew thin and he put his ear to the door to listen as the barrage of gunfire died on the other side.

 _Obviously_. Mycroft subtly rolled his eyes but kept his thoughts to himself, no need to provoke the man who had saved him from becoming swiss cheese on the street.

The both stood in silence for several minutes, the only sounds they could hear were their breathing and their own heartbeats. The minutes dragged on into an hour, at which point both men were sitting on the floor, waiting. Martin stood and began pacing back and forth across the closet floor, two steps one way- turn- two steps back- repeat. This continued for several more minutes before the man stopped suddenly and glanced at Holmes before glaring at the door.

“I’m going to check it out.” Martin announced finally, seemingly more to himself than Mycroft.

“Hold on a moment.” Holmes objected just in time to make the security guard pull his hand back from the doorknob. “It’s likely that they’re waiting out there for people to make that exact mistake. You’ll get yourself killed and that won’t be of any help to anyone, especially not your family.”

Green’s mouth drew up into a long, flat line, eyes glaring at nothing in particular as he considered the politician’s words. Mycroft could see the motivation had not dissipated yet, the gears still turning in his mind to convince him to go on the obvious suicide mission.

“Now is not the time for heroics. It is the time to sit and wait for reinforcements to arrive.” Mycroft continued, knowing that the chances of either of them surviving would not be good if Green went out there. At least right now there was a chance that the shooters hadn’t seen the pair of them slip into the closet during the commotion.

“I’m sorry. I need to make sure everyone’s okay. It’s my job, Mr. Holmes.” Martin give him a tight smile for reassurance and nodded to him before twisting the door handle and leaning out.

Mycroft watched as he glanced around, the coast seemed clear and Martin stepped out. Mycroft’s heart hammered in his ears to the sight of the security detail’s footsteps.

**_Beat_ **

Step, a little dust was kicked up.

**_Beat_ **

Step, a rock crunched under the man’s shoe

**_Beat_ **

Step, a light breeze blew through the street and moved the dust but Mycroft didn’t feel it.

**_Be-_ **

_RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT!_

Mycroft felt his heart skip as the sharp cry of a gun cut through the silence, watching, paralyzed, as Martin had his feet jerked out from under him and landed on his back.

Silence refilled the street and Holmes realized he couldn’t even hear his heartbeat as he watched the guard look toward the open door in a slow, unseeing, daze.

Mycroft’s eyebrows knit together and trembled, fear lacing through him at the sight of the left side of Green’s face- bloody, muddy, nothingness.

Holmes backed up quickly and tried to position himself behind some boxes as silently as possible, knowing that he couldn’t close the door on his own (lest the attackers realize there was more than just the now dead officer in the room) but that if he didn’t hide and they came down from their posts and searched the street, he would be a sitting duck. At least he could be a harder to find duck.

Mycroft sat behind the boxes for what felt like hours, knees pulled up to his chest and arms hugging them, trying to make himself as small as possible while ignoring the trembling in his limbs. He knew he had to get help eventually for his shoulder, but now certainly wasn’t the time.

 _Don’t go to sleep. Think of home. Think of Sherlock. Think of anything else but_ \- the image of Martin Green’s dusty corpse flooded his mind, the missing half of his head splattered like roadkill in the street.

Mycroft shook his head, clearing the image frantically. _Think of home. Work. Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock._

The name repeated like a mantra in his head until sleep slowly overtook him like fog, unnoticed until it was too late to do anything.

“Sir… sir… over here! We found someone!” A hand was gently shaking his unharmed shoulder and Mycroft blearily looked up at the soldier kneeling beside him. “Sir, can you hear me? What’s your name?”

“M-” A thick swallow before he could attempt speaking. “Mycroft Holmes.” The voice was a raspy whisper and cried for water, which the soldier willingly gave.

Mycroft took the offered bottle and greedily chugged several mouthfuls before handing it back with a grateful nod.  

“We’ve got a Mr. Mycroft Holmes in here. He’s been shot.” The man kneeling beside him half-turned to report to someone who had appeared in the doorway, that figure in turn nodding and disappearing.

“Sir, we have to get you out of here. Can you stand?”

Mycroft nodded once, an official air to him as he slowly uncurled his body and set about the task of standing with the help of the young man next to him. As embarrassing as he found it to need help for so simple a task, he knew inside that further humiliation would be caused if he tried to stand on his own and fell. Better to simply accept the lesser of two evils and take the soldier's arm. He slowly staggered out of the broom closet, legs screaming in protest at every step and shoulder flaring up whenever he moved.

“Sir, we have a helicopter here to evacuate you.” The soldier’s voice was heard but didn’t register, Mycroft staring at the spot where the guard who’d saved his life had been killed, nothing left except some drying mud and a few tufts of hair.

 _Martin Green._ Holmes repeated the name in his head along with a note to track down the man’s family and keep tabs on them.

“Sir, we have to go now.” The young man pulled at Mycroft and slowly got the gentleman’s body to cooperate with him as he led Mycroft toward the next street over, the helicopter ready to pull away with the few other survivors who had been found.

* * *

 “Sherlock.” Mycroft walked briskly into the apartment of 221b Baker Street.

“Oh, wonderful. You’re back from another party abroad.” Sherlock’s voice dripped with loathing sarcasm, the detective’s glare only enunciating the annoyance and dislike coming from the younger of the two brothers.

“It was not a party, brother dear.” Mycroft sighed the correction as he sat in the chair across from Sherlock, umbrella on one side and manilla envelope on the other.

“Oh, I’m sorry, organized pocket-lining meeting.” Sherlock’s thin fingers snatched his violin from the side of his chair and began plucking sour notes, enjoying the distaste and discomfort that showed up clearly on Mycroft’s face.

The elder Holmes simply sighed again before picking up the envelope and holding it out toward Sherlock. “I think this will be of some interest to you.”

“Boring.” Sherlock rolled his eyes and plucked another note.

“Sherlock, I don’t have time for this.” Mycroft knew that he shouldn’t be holding the paper with the arm that was still healing, but doing otherwise would be suspicious.

“Oh, come on, Mycroft! You could solve whatever case that is if you’d only get out of your office and do a little legwork!” Sherlock picked at three more notes, watching his brother grow more irritated with each.

“I assure you, Sherlock, that’s not possible at the moment. Though, likewise, you could solve the case if you would simply accept it and maybe even leave the apartment.” Mycroft pointedly withdrew the envelope before holding it out again in a slightly more aggressive manner.

“How’s the diet?” Sherlock plucked at his instrument, knowing that when he had no retort, he could still stir his brother up by making a personal jab.

“Fine.” Mycroft’s voice grated with aggravation.

“Oh, it can’t be doing too well, you’ve gained a few pounds since I saw you last.” Sherlock looked his brother up and down.

Mycroft’s lips tightened over his teeth, he knew Sherlock was right. But being confined to bedrest had messed with his exercise regime.

“Too much cake?” Another sour note cried from the violin. “Maybe if you did some legwork, you’d lose a pound or two.”

The image of Martin Green flooded Mycroft’s head so quickly that it took all of his willpower to keep from having an outwardly reaction. _A pound or two. Maybe from the shoulder instead of the head though. Heads can be such a nasty business._ No amount of willing the images of the half missing head to go away worked. Mycroft could feel his stomach churning. He had to leave before the reaction became too physical.

Mycroft sighed (portraying to all who observed him, a tired and frustrated man who was simply fed up with dealing with his sibling), stood up, grabbed his umbrella, and threw the case in his brother’s lap in a swift series of fluid movements, turning without another glance toward his brother and exiting the apartment. “Good day, brother mine.”


	3. Blades and Brothers

Mycroft walked down the hall with the politician he had been discussing foreign policy with all morning, playing the dutiful host for the gentleman in order to win him over to his side. Had he been paying attention to the area around him instead of charming another vote for a new policy, he would have noticed the glowering young woman standing next to the water tank.

“As you see, Mr. Stebbins, logic dictates that voting for the water bill would be best for all parties and would certainly raise your votes next election.” Mycroft spoke smoothly, knowing from the glitter in the politician’s eye that he had won him over.

“Ms. Cecelia sends her regards.” A quiet, feminine voice piped up behind them. Mycroft and the politician turned around at the same time, looking at the thin figure in a charcoal grey hoodie. 

The knife flashed in the light for less than a second before it was imbedded in the senator's neck, blood spraying Mycroft, the wall behind him, and the ceiling above him as screams from others in the hallway shrieked through the building. 

Mycroft stared for a second longer, shocked by the suddenness of it and sickened by the drowning gurgle emitting from the man he had just spent the morning cajoling with well placed words and his finest brandy.

His body snapped into action without Mycroft thinking about it, twisting himself around and taking off down the hall, removing his suit coat in a fast and practiced movement. He spun around, instinctively feeling that the assassin was right behind him and held his coat out, letting the knife cut into that instead of it hitting it’s mark where his heart would have been. 

The woman grunted, thrown off balance by the quick reflexes she hadn’t expected from the middle-aged man. 

Mycroft moved the fabric and twisted it around her arm, shifting behind her and pulling the sleeves behind her back.

The hitman slipped out of the grip after a brief struggle, spinning to face her second target and lashed out with the knife. The sudden shift from fluid moving to slightly more sluggish speed telling her that she’d succeeded. 

The knife slipped into Mycroft’s side with nearly no effort, going in until the woman’s hand hit his shirt. 

Mycroft met the assassin’s determined eyes and felt his brow twist with concern and confusion, his head not being able to make sense of all the signals coming from his body. 

The female bared her teeth and pulled the knife out, plunging it in a second time just below his tie, maintaining eye contact with the taller figure directly in front of her. She twisted the knife sharply, eliciting a soft gasp from the person still staring at her with confusion and tore the blade out. A delicate moan drifted from the target at the violent movement, color and coherence already draining from his face as she knew she had hit at least one vital spot. 

She swung the blade out and moved to stab him again when several shots rang out and pain blossomed everywhere in her body. She was dead before she hit the ground.

“Mr. Holmes!” The security guards sprinted toward their boss from the end of the hall, watching his body collapse like a puppet with its strings cut. 

“Mr. Holmes!” Two of the men stopped at the nearly already unconscious man, two others rushing the other three steps to check on the politician thrown on the floor. “Mr. Holmes, stay with me. You need to stay awake, sir.” One of the men removed his suit coat and began trying to staunch the bleeding that had begun to tie-dye Mycroft’s white button-up in earnest. 

“No! No! Sir, stay awake!” Mycroft could hear the man’s voice like a drum but couldn’t find the strength to listen.  _ I really need to get better security. _ Mycroft’s eyes drifted closed while his guards screamed orders at him.

* * *

“Mycroft…” The young boy’s voice beckoned him through the darkness.

_ Sherlock? _ The man saw a growing white light flash in front of him before he suddenly found himself in a field not too far from his childhood home. He looked around at the gorgeous farmland and up at the familiar rickety old tree in the middle of meadow where he could always find Sherlock climbing as a little boy. 

“Mycroft!” The elder holmes looked down to see a young seven-year-old version of Sherlock staring up at him. 

“Y-yes?” Mycroft felt himself stumble over his words in surprise, never having thought he’d get to see his little brother again at a time before the hatred had started. 

“Will you play with me, My?” The young voice and hopeful eyes touched his heart and he felt a sudden jolt of pain. He easily pushed the unpleasantness aside and stared with wonder that the image of his little brother. He desperately wanted to say yes and do whatever the boy wanted. Did he want to play pirates? Mycroft would be first mate. Did he want to go name bugs down by the creek? Mycroft could help him name any of the small critters that he got stuck on. Did he want to do a puzzle? Mycroft could do it with him and then flip the puzzle over and they could do it with the blank pieces. But… he was old. And he knew that he had outgrown his usefulness and ability to keep up with the youthful figure in front of him. 

“I-I’m not sure I know how.” Mycroft quietly confessed, letting the seven-year-old take his hand and walk with him through the field back toward their home.

“Oh, My…” Sherlock sighed disappointedly and pouted at the ground while they continued to walk. 

Mycroft felt the pain strike at his chest again but ignored it and knelt down, grabbing his little brother’s shoulders and looking up at him. “But maybe you could teach me. Hmm?”

Sherlock’s eyes lit up and the smile he gave Mycroft filled him with warmth.

Sherlock pounced forward and wrapped his arms around Mycroft’s neck, smile still brimming on his cheeks. Mycroft froze for a second, stunned that this could have ever happened to him again, before gently hugging the boy back, loving the idea of being with his younger brother again at an age where Sherlock’s love for him had been obvious and occasionally overwhelming.

Mycroft felt another jolt, this one nearly costing him his breath.

“But you have to leave now, My.” Sherlock untangled himself from his older brother and stared sorrowfully into his eyes.

“No, no Sherlock. I promise I’ll never leave you again. It’ll be okay now.” Mycroft moved his hands down to hold the child’s hands gently.

Pain shot through his body like a lightning bolt and caused him to drop Sherlock’s hands and double over, body dry heaving from the pressure.

“My?!” Sherlock’s voice sounded frightened and Mycroft knew that that felt more painful than whatever was happening to his body.

“No! No, Sherlock, it’s fine. I’m okay. I don’t know what’s happening but I’m alright.” Mycroft reassured the boy and began to straighten up.

Pain surged through his body, electrocuting every part of him. He felt more than heard himself let out a cry as he collapsed onto the grassy field underneath him.

“Sh-Sherlock!” Mycroft could see Sherlock crying through his own tears, slowly he raised a shaky hand to brush the boy’s cheek. “I-it-it’s okay. I- I promise. Please don’t cry.”

“Mycroft, you have to go.” Sherlock knelt down swiftly next to his brother and hugged his neck again. “You have to go or I’ll never get to see you again.” 

“Sherlock…” Mycroft could feel his voice growing weak, the edges of his vision blackening.

“I love you, My. I always will.” Sherlock spoke softly into Mycroft’s neck as he hugged him.

One more jolt and he felt his throat and body scream as he was flung from wherever his consciousness had been.

* * *

 

“Clear!” The paddles thumped on the middle-aged man’s chest, no response coming from the heart monitor.

“Again.” The doctor ordered bluntly, listening to the charging of the electricity before he gave the directive again. “Clear!”

“Sir, there’s no response.” One of the nurses read the monitor, clearly giving up hope as the seventh and eighth attempts to restart the man’s heart hadn’t been successful.

“Let’s try again. One more time.” The doctor glared from her to the monitor to the figure on the table.

“Charging.” One of the nurses held the paddles, waiting for the announcement that everyone was safely away from the body.

“Clear!” The doctor’s voice stubbornly called out.

The sudden ping and consistent beep from the monitor caused everyone to look from it to the man, relieved and mildly shocked that they had brought him back. 

“Alright, let’s take care of him.” The doctor snapped them out of their daze and get them moving again, eager to save a life.

* * *

"Hello, brother.” Sherlock loudly marched into the hospital room of his elder sibling, smugly sitting in a chair next to the bed.

Mycroft sighed and placed his fork on his tray, taking a moment to gather himself before glaring at the man next to him. “What do you want, Sherlock?”

“Nothing. Although I will be taking that cake.” Sherlock shamelessly reached up and took the moist slice of chocolate cake from Mycroft’s dinner, picking it up in his fingers and consuming a fourth of it in one large bite. “You certainly don’t need it.”

Mycroft wanted to retort but didn’t have the energy, so he just sighed and watched his cake disappear bite by bite. He knew that the chart on the end of his bed said that he had come in for a fairly simple surgery, appendix removal. And that all the nurses on the floor would attest to said removal. But he also knew that if Sherlock decided to probe with any serious questions, he wouldn’t have the self-control at the moment to keep Sherlock from figuring out what had actually happened.

“So, you didn’t want to tell me you were in the hospital?” Sherlock lounged back in his chair once he had licked the frosting from his hand and watched his brother easily.

“Why would I, brother dear?” Mycroft returned cooly. “Such a routine surgery surely would have bored you.” 

Sherlock remained quiet for a moment longer than Mycroft had been expecting and a small voice popped into his head,  _ I love you, My. I always will. _

“Hmm. You’re right. Next time I won’t bother to waste my time.” Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly and stood from the chair, throwing on his coat. “I have to say, I think I enjoyed that cake more than your company.” And briskly walked out of the room, never sparing a second glance behind him.

Mycroft watched the door for another moment, lost in thought.  **_Always_ ** _ doesn’t always mean  _ **_forever_ ** _. Things have certainly changed, dear brother. _ He redirected his attention to his dinner tray and pursed his lips, sighing.  _ And now I’m out my cake. _


	4. An Unfortunate Blessing

“Hey, Sherlock....” John cautiously called for the detective, never removing his eyes from the television in front of him. 

Sherlock appeared from the kitchen and looked down at his friend questioningly before turning his attention to the same object that had John’s attention.

“A bombing today at the Diogenes Club has baffled experts, police have no leads on the case.” The news woman spoke in a serious tone. “According to reports, there have been several people with minor injuries but only one fatality. While officials have yet to release the man’s name, one lead said that it is a frequent visitor who occupies a minor position in the government.”

The door to the apartment slammed out and John spun around with just enough time to see Sherlock’s hair bouncing as he flew down the stairs, coat forgotten on the rack.

“Sherlock!” John sprinted after him, grabbing his own jacket and throwing it on before snatching the belstaff.

John charged out of the front door and looked up and down the street before spotting his friend running in the direction of the club while trying to hail a cab at the same time.

“Sherlock!” John shouted before spotting a taxi and calling it over, jumping in and pointing out the running man. The taxi sped over to the young Holmes brother and stopped just long enough for him to leap in next to John, ordering the directions along with an uncharacteristically urgent, “Drive!” 

The taxi arrived at the roadblock just two streets away from the building, smoke and dust still rising lazily in the air.

Sherlock pushed the door open roughly and dashed away through the gathered crowd, coat tails flying behind him.

John paid the man without really looking at the bills, muttering for the cabbie to keep the change before chasing after the detective.

“Let me through! Let me through!” Sherlock shoved his way through the crowd and ducked under the police barriers keeping civilians off the scene.

“Sir, you can’t be here.” One of the officers approached Sherlock and started to push him back toward the crowd.

“No! No, I have to get through. Please, let me through. I have to get over there!” 

“Sherlock! Sherlock.” John panted, ducking under the barrier smoothly and approaching the officer who was gently ushering the panicked man back behind the crime scene. “Please, stop,” he moved between Sherlock and the uniformed law enforcement, “we have reason to believe that the dead-” John stopped himself for Sherlock’s sake and looked pointedly at the officer. “That a person of interest may be his brother.”

The officer’s eyes widened first in surprise and then in sympathy before nodding, allowing the pair to sprint past him.

John watched as Sherlock pulled ahead of him, head moving back and forth quickly as he carried all the air of a desperate man who was in the middle of dealing with one of his greatest fears.

They ran through the crowd, looking at the people taking statements and others who hadn’t quite figured out where to go or what exactly was going on. Sherlock looked through the mass of bodies, not deducing but simply looking for a familiar face. 

John nearly ran into Sherlock when the taller man stopped suddenly and a deep, baritone cry was pulled from his chest. For a second, John feared the worst, hearing the cry as one of pain. But in the next second, he saw where Sherlock was looking and spotted Mycroft sitting in the back of one of the many ambulances, legs dangling off the end as a medic applied a bandage to the elder Holmes’ forehead. Then the cry registered as one of sheer relief.

Sherlock and John made a beeline for the vehicle, pulling up on the other side of Mycroft so that the medic could continue working.

“Mycroft, boring as ever it seems.” Sherlock’s sardonic drawl came out so naturally that John almost doubted if Sherlock had actually reacted in the way he remembered since they heard the news in the apartment.

“Yes, brother. I’m afraid you’re not rid of me quite yet.” Mycroft’s equally bored tone coupled with a raised eyebrow brought the entire emergency situation back to a regular day, the brothers easily falling into bickering within seconds of the pair being near each other.

“So why am I here than?” Sherlock scowled at his brother as if it was his fault that he had left his comfortable flat and come out in the cold.

“I don’t know, Sherlock. Why  _ are _ you here?” Mycroft turned his full attention to his brother, ignoring the medic who was now tightly bandaging his left wrist.

Sherlock stared at him for a long moment, obviously not wanting to admit his panic at the idea of losing his brother but still in such a state of shock that his mind couldn’t come up with a good excuse.  

“How’s the diet?” Sherlock quipped.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and sighed, deciding not to even grace his brother with an answer. Sherlock waited for a minute for a response and upon realizing he wasn’t going to get on, decided to change tactics. 

“So who died?” John did a double take at Sherlock’s bluntness, eyes widening and looking around to make sure that nobody else had heard the insensitive question asked so flippantly

“His name was Malcolm Abbott. Apparently someone placed a bomb under one of the chairs and he happened to be the one to sit in it.” Mycroft suddenly looked very tired.

“Hmm… well maybe I can look into it and see about helping find the bomber.” Sherlock suggested this in a very casual tone although John didn’t miss the unspoken reason- that Sherlock wanted to find the person who hurt his brother and could have killed him.

John glanced at Mycroft, seeing no change in the man’s expression. Was it possible that Mycroft couldn’t see how much Sherlock cared? Despite Sherlock’s subpar abilities to hide that fact?

“No need, brother mine.” Mycroft raised his free hand and waved it dismissively towards them. “I’ve already had it taken care of.”

“Oh.” Sherlock’s voice almost sounded dejected but the man turned away so that most of his voice was lost in the wind. “Well than,” he turned back toward John, casually ignoring Mycroft now, “I think our work here is done.”

“Um… yeah… I guess…” John looked between the brothers, clearly confused by the interaction that just occurred. 

“Come along, John.” Sherlock turned on his heel and walked off, paying no more mind to the elder Holmes who was still being looked over by the medic in the back of an ambulance.

Mycroft sighed to himself inwardly and watched his brother’s retreating figure. He certainly did  _ not _ have it taken care of. But if Sherlock started to look into the case and begin investigating, he would learn that Malcolm was new to the club and hadn’t learned that each man was a man of habit and would always sit in the same spot. He would learn that Malcolm had walked into the Diogenes Club with Mycroft behind him and that Malcolm had checked in and proceeded to make himself comfortable in a black leather chair by one of the many fireplaces in the large room. He would learn that the only reason Mycroft had been close enough to the blast to be thrown back, effectively landing on his wrist- spraining it, and hitting his head hard enough to make the skin break and bleed, was because Malcolm had made himself comfortable in Mycroft’s chair. Sherlock would learn that, through a series of unluckily lucky events, a bomb that was clearly meant for Mycroft had taken the life of someone else and allowed Mycroft to stumble away virtually unharmed. And despite Mycroft knowing that Sherlock genuinely didn’t care about him anymore, he couldn’t bring himself to risk hurting or distressing his little brother with the knowledge that he would have been in the morgue had it not been for a new member of the club who had unwittingly sacrificed himself in Mycroft’s place.


	5. Poison

Mycroft let out a grateful sigh as his relaxed into his office chair. The entire day had been spent talking to politicians and senators and discussing foreign affairs with the prime minister. Needless to say, it had been a very exhausting morning and afternoon.

He opened his desk drawer and extracted a delicate crystal glass, reaching for his decanter and pouring himself a generous amount of amber liquid before reclining back into his chair and taking a moment to close his eyes.

He sipped the fine brandy and felt a small smile creep onto his face at the feeling of the smooth liqueur going down his throat.

“Sir?” Anthea knocked on the door softly before cracking it open and peeking inside. “Is now a bad time?”

“Not at all, my dear. Do come in.” Mycroft straightened up and set his glass on the desk, leaning forward to put his elbows on the desk while listening to his secretary.

“I just wanted to go over your schedule for tomorrow, sir.” Anthea looked down at her phone at the already pulled up files. “Your first meeting will be at eight o’clock in the morning, with Lady Smallwood. After that, you have a lunch meeting with…”

Mycroft squinted as Anthea’s voice began to fade out, the room slowly tilting to the left. He watched as his vision blurred, his eyes feeling grainy, as if sand were kicked into them. His stomach began to churn restlessly and he tried to swallow thickly to ease it but found that getting his throat to work was nearly impossible.

He could vaguely make out Anthea glancing up at him to make sure he was listening and tensing upon the sight of him. Her mouth moving to one word at first before talking more urgently, her body language clearly denoting stress and panic.

Anthea glanced up at her boss, freezing on the spot. Where there had been a perfectly healthy man when she had just come in a minute ago, there was now a deathly pale and sickly looking figure.

“Mr. Holmes? Sir?” Anthea watched his eyes lazily drift up to her face, although he seemed to look through her more than at her. “Mycroft? Mycroft?” Her concern became fear when she saw a nose-bleed suddenly start, trickling over his lips and down his chin before dripping steadily onto his fine-silk suit. He didn’t seem to notice.

By this time she was already on the phone with emergency services, giving their location and orders to, “get here! Now!”

Mycroft slowly listed to one side, collapsing from his chair and catching his temple on the side of his desk before landing in a pile on the floor.

“Mycroft!” Anthea sprung from her chair and rushed to the man’s side, wincing at the gash in his forehead before pushing him onto his side, unwilling to have her boss drown from his own nose-bleed.

“Medics!” A man’s tenor voice echoed in the hall just before he and his partner entered the room, quickly moving Anthea aside as to get to the emergency.

“What happened?” One of the men spoke, not turning to look at her as he evaluated the situation.

“I don’t know. One moment he was fine and the next-” Anthea shrugged desperately, wishing she knew what had happened, her explanation being cut off by one of the medics.

“He’s seizing!” Both men began working even faster than before, an unspoken communication going on as they each began different tasks to save the man on the floor.

Anthea backed up to give them more room and caught a glimpse of Mycroft’s limbs twitching wildly before she spun around and left the room, unable to listen to any more of her boss’ weak groans as his limbs and back were contorted painfully without his permission.

Maybe she should contact Sherlock. She wanted to. But she knew that her boss had given her direct orders not to involve him with any emergencies pertaining to him unless he expressly to her to.

 _“There have been enough… incidents, in the past where distasteful things have happened to me. My brother may not have my mind, but he isn’t a goldfish. If he wanted to, deducing a gunshot wound or the reason behind some lackadaisical behavior would be a walk in the park for him, despite how well I may be able to hide it. No, my dear, he doesn’t see because he doesn’t want to. Because he doesn’t care. And why would I wish to cause him any more inconvenience than I already have? No, there is no reason to alert my brother if anything happens.”_ Mycroft’s words had hurt her to hear, knowing that, even if he wouldn’t admit it (even to himself), the words had hurt him to say. But she would follow his wishes. No need to stress him out more than he would be already when he wakes up. _If he wakes up._ Anthea shook the thought out of her head with a tight motion that resembled a shiver. _No._ **_When_ ** _he wakes up._ She reassured herself.

“Yes, we’re on our way. Yes, top priority.” The secretary turned around and watched as the medics walked out of the office as fast as they could with the still-shaking body on the stretcher, a pace fast enough that Anthea would have to run to keep up.

But she knew she would stay behind. At least for a little while. She had to reschedule his meetings to an indefinite date and call his tailor to begin work on a new suit and wait for police so she could help with the investigation to the best of her abilities. _Note to self: do not allow Gregory Lestrade on the case. Sherlock talks to him too much._ But most of all, she knew that she couldn’t bear to see Mycroft again the way she had just seen him. She had been there after the previous attempts, sure. There to help if he needed anything and handle all of his affairs while his begrudgingly took time off to recover. But this time, she had seen it happen. And not only that, what she had seen made her genuinely doubt if Mycroft could survive this.

 

* * *

It was horribly touch and go for awhile.

Well, no. That statement was incorrect as it implied that it had stopped being touch and go. Mycroft’s condition had improved so minutely that nobody could confidently say he’d survive another twenty-four hours. And they had had a few scares already to prove it. Twice, Anthea was informed that her bosses heart had stopped. The alarms indicating seizures went off so often that every nurse on every shift knew which room he was in. And the amount of blood he kept losing, whether through nose-bleeds or internal malfunctions, was seriously concerning the doctors.

Anthea sat in the hallway outside of Mycroft’s room, fingers flying over the screen of her keyboard. Glancing up occasionally to look at the pair of strong-looking men standing in front of the hospital room entrance.

The guards had been on rotation for eight hour shifts, an order that two men must be outside his door, protecting it, at all times. Mycroft would have Lady Smallwood to thank for that.

It had been three days since her boss had collapsed in his office. Anthea had been expecting Sherlock since day one. It had taken less than forty-eight hours for Sherlock to show up after the knifing incident. Why it was taking longer this time confused and concerned the assistant.

With a barely audible sigh, Anthea stood up and walked over to the door, cracking the door and peeking in.

“‘Er’lock… no, I ‘on’t t’ink so…” Mycroft’s lips didn’t move as he muttered in his sleep, a thin sheen of sweat covering a very pale face. “Maybe, brother, ‘ear.”

Anthea backed away and gently closed the door. Since his last heart attack, last night, he had become much more vocal, carrying on almost continuous conversation with someone. It broke her heart to see her boss in such a weak and disoriented state. So when the talking got to be too much, she left and sat in the hall instead.

“Where is he?” Sherlock’s deep tones filled the hall before he had even turned the corner. His eyes instantly locked with Anthea’s and he marched over to her with his usual swagger.

“Well, well, is my brother in such a bad mood that even you can’t stand him?” Sherlock glared at her nonchalantly but as the deductions kept coming, her eyes, her hair, her clothes, her makeup, her hands, her phone, her purse, his sardonic attitude faded.

“What happened?” His voice was clipped and his eyes left her, head snapping to the side to stare at the guarded door just across from her.

“He didn’t want me to contact you.” Anthea didn’t look up from her phone but her fingers had stopped moving, her words drifting up like cigarette smoke.

“What?” Sherlock’s attention shot back to his brother’s assistant.

“He said you wouldn’t care, so he didn’t want to bother you.” The volume on this was a little louder, a little angrier- not by much, but enough for Sherlock to pick up on.

Sherlock opened his mouth to respond but after running through his deductions again, decided to simply walk into the room. Maybe his brother could explain all of this. The wild deductions his brain was coming up with that simply couldn’t be true. The things his homeless network had told him while two of them had been walking past an office building in the more up-scale part of town. The queasy feeling he had in his stomach.

The guards moved fluidly, blocking the door and glaring the young man down.

“Let him through.” Anthea watched the situation until the guards relented and allowed the thin man in the belstaff to gain entrance before returning attention to her phone.

* * *

Sherlock opened the door and stepped inside, a part of his mind assuring him that his deductions could be wrong and he would find his brother sitting in the hospital bed eating cake and sighing at his little brother. The door graciously closed behind him as his feet seemed frozen in place.

When the two homeless men had come to his door talking about the man from the office building, which Sherlock knew Mycroft worked at, and how the person was carried away in an ambulance while the stretcher clattered due to how much the person was thrashing, Sherlock’s mind whispered that he should call Mycroft.

Sherlock brushed off the instinct for five hours before finally texting him.

_Busy eating cake, brother?_

_-S_

He knew the text would get some kind of response quickly.

He waited an hour. Two hours. Three hours. Four. Five. Six. Nothing.

 _Go check the hospital._ Sherlock’s mind whispered to him again. He sat impatiently in his chair, brow furrowed, and self entirely too stubborn to admit when something might be wrong. He absentmindedly watched as the shadows and light shifted slowly across his floor, the sun nearly on the horizon before Sherlock made up his mind.

Walking into the hallway the nurses had directed him towards after a short and not-so-sweet, “Mycroft Holmes, where is he?”, he was met with Anthea.  

“Well, well, is my brother in such a bad mood that even you can’t stand him?” Sherlock stared at her coldly as his mind quickly went to work.

She wasn’t in the room with his brother, someone or something had caused her to leave.

Her eyes had bags under them, no sleep.

Her hair was slightly unmanaged, pointing towards her fingers running through it several times due to stress.

Her clothing was rumpled and the pant leg had some kind of liquid on it. She hadn’t left the hospital since arriving, she was in such a hurry to arrive that she didn’t bother to stop off at her flat to change clothes after something spilled on them, and if she hadn’t left, that meant that something was serious enough for her to stay.

Her makeup was faded, almost gone, testifying to her not leaving and also testifying to something so serious that she was willing to neglect her appearance.

Her hands were shaking slightly. Another sign of stress and exhaustion.

Her phone had dropped in power. She was texting a number that wasn’t saved to her phone.

Her purse was slightly open, things sticking out of it as if she was continuously digging through it in search of something.

Sherlock felt an icy rope wrap slowly around his heart, fear at a near-primal level gripping his chest.

“What happened?” He snapped impatiently, eyeing the door that stood between him and his brother.

Now he stood frozen between the door and the bed, the machines monitoring his brother’s weak pulse and heartbeat beeping monotonously.

“‘Erlock…” Mycroft’s voice floated up weakly, making Sherlock freeze even more as he held his breath.

“Mycr-” The younger Holmes felt his voice crack and stopped to clear his throat. “Mycroft?”

Mycroft’s head ticked to the side and his lips moved soundlessly before stilling again.

Sherlock stepped closer to the bed, taking in the sight of his bruised and far-too-pale sibling lying on the mattress in front of him.

“What’re you doing, ‘rother dear?” Mycroft’s feather-light voice floated through the still air in the dark room.

“I came to check on you.” Sherlock answered quietly, not wanting to disturb his brother if he had a headache.

“Yeah, ‘at is a ‘eetle. Good job, Sherly.” Mycroft’s lips ghosted a smile before his breath caught in his throat. Sherlock felt his own lungs stop functioning for a few seconds until his brother’s could figure out how to work themselves again.

“Mycroft?” Sherlock stepped closer, realizing at the elder Holmes’ last sentence that his brother wasn’t actually speaking to him. He stood at the edge of the bed, observing the machines, wires, and tubes that were hooked to Mycroft; observing the substantial bruising that had come from his body failing to keep its blood where it belonged, the red liquid splotching his face, arms, and down into his hospital gown where Sherlock couldn’t see.

“D’you think you could name thisss’one?” Mycroft slurred lazily and there was a moment’s pause before his lips twitched into a fond smile. “‘Ery good, Shherly…” His voice drifted off again.

Sherlock could feel his heart beating against his chest, fear filling his limbs as he stared at his older brother. Mycroft was talking in his sleep. But, as Sherlock remembered from childhood, Mycroft never talked in his sleep.

The only time he had done so was when he was fourteen, Mycroft contracted a horrible fever. His parents told Sherlock to stay away from Mycroft and just read his books, but as he was reading he heard his parents debating if they should bring their oldest child to the hospital. The way they spoke, the way his mother began to cry as his father pulled her into his arms to comfort her, the very air in the house, all worked together to set his entire body on edge. As silently as he could, he crept into Mycroft’s room and sat on the edge of the bed to watch his sibling.

Mycroft muttered and thrashed his head weakly, the weak moans and half-expressed words terrifying Sherlock as they dripped from his throat.

Mycroft had been in the hospital for two weeks after that.

When he got home, Mycroft was careful to make sure his little brother was emotionally okay. He even offered to read Sherlock a bedtime story. It was during storytime that Mycroft quietly confessed to the young child that he actually didn’t even remember the last two weeks.

Sherlock never forgot.

“Mycroft?” Sherlock let his fingers ghost through his brother’s hair, suddenly overcome by the same heart-wrenching fear that overcame him as a seven-year-old. Though this fear was measurably worse as Sherlock knew this wasn’t some illness but a genuine attempt on his brother’s life.

“Mr. Holmes?” Anthea opened the door quietly and closed it behind her, solemnly observing the younger Holmes brother as he pet his brother’s head with a shaky hand.

“What happened?” Sherlock’s voice came out tight and full of anger, each word enunciated to get his point across.

“Someone broke into Mycroft’s office and put a substantial amount of poison in his brandy. We’re working to find the person who did it.” Anthea assured weakly.

“What was the poison?” Sherlock didn’t take his eyes off the person in the bed but stopped moving his hand.

“We… we don’t know yet. It was a specially made toxin. We haven’t found an antidote yet.” That got Sherlock to glare at her, his eyes burning with fury and deep protectiveness.

“You mean to tell me that Mycroft hasn’t had an antidote yet?” Sherlock took a deep breath and released it shakily. “How long?”

“I’m sorry?” Anthea’s face emitted confusion and she shook her head.

“How long does he have?!” Sherlock’s deep voice tore through the dark silence and ended with a stifled wheeze of air that let the secretary know that the younger Holmes had began to cry despite his best efforts.

“He… it might be… we don’t know.” Anthea’s shoulders sagged from the exhaustion the past twenty four hours had brought. “It could be any time. His heart’s already stopped twice.”

Sherlock’s eyes sparkled in shock, his mouth agape as he stared at her before his eyes flickered back down to Mycroft.

“We have our best scientists working on it. We’re making headway. We’ve already identified the type of toxin, it’s just a matter of figuring out the compound structure.”

“Get out.” Sherlock’s shoulders dropped from the sudden weight being placed on them.

“Mr. Holmes-” Anthea took an argumentative step forward.

“Get out!” Sherlock raised his voice for the second time that night and watched with rage as his brother’s secretary quickly left the room.

Sherlock looked around the room and pulled a chair up to the bed, his fingers lightly brushing Mycroft’s pale hand absentmindedly until he slowly started to drift off.

**_BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP_ **

Sherlock jumped to consciousness in his chair, the fear and alarm from being startled awake only growing when his eyes focused on the seizing body of his brother in front of him.

“My?!” Sherlock heard his voice raise several octaves, suddenly sounding like he was a child again. He lept to his feet as the nurses rushed in, his heart aching as he wished he could help the medical assistants.

Sherlock excused himself from the room as more people flooded in to help, fleeing down the hall and into an unoccupied bathroom without a word. He slammed into one of the stalls and emptied his already unfed stomach into one of the toilets, retching nothing but bile as tears flooded down his cheeks and chest-heaving sobs were ripped out of his throat.

Sherlock tried to calm down but the crying didn’t slow, his breath came to him in short gasps and he could feel his chest getting tighter as the fear-based panic attack gripped his internal organs and twisted his heart painfully.

 _Mycroft could die. No, he is dying. Oh god. Oh god, no. No. No. No, please. He can’t. Not now. Not yet. Please. Please. Please!_ Sherlock’s mind screamed to nobody in particular, his body collapsed in the stall with his hands tightly gripping his hair with the last of his strength.

His brother was going to die. Not quickly. Not from old age. He was going to die, tortured to death by a poison that was tearing his body apart from the inside out. And Sherlock couldn’t do a single thing to stop it.

Whenever Sherlock tried to imagine Mycroft’s death, all his mind produced was a blank black sheet. Because he simply couldn’t picture life without his brother. Sure, he could see his own death. And how Mycroft would react to it. But he could never imagine his older, seemingly invinceable, brother ever being brought down, even by old age. Sherlock had no doubt that Mycroft would instead either convince the grim reaper to let him live forever or otherwise become the grim reaper himself.

But… Mycroft was dying. If he wasn’t dead already. Sherlock felt his stomach heave again at that thought but there was nothing left to come up.

Slowly and unsteadily, Sherlock pushed himself to his feet and stumbled to the sink to clean himself up.

It took another several minutes before he decided he looked well enough to face Mycroft again and left the bathroom with a steady stride.

He walked into the room without hesitation, that anyone could see, and observed the single nurse still in the room.

She was facing the bed and seemed to be checking the equipment but turned after hearing the door close and gave a weak smile toward Sherlock.

“We were able to stop the seizure. He’s still not out of the woods though,sir.” The nurse finished her duties and excused herself from the room while Sherlock retook his seat next to the hospital bed.

He sat, watching the monitors for what felt like hours, his chest still tight from crying but his mind lulled by the beeping. Slowly he leaned toward his brother and felt the sorrow and panic begin anew.

“Mycroft…” Sherlock took his brother’s hand in his. “Mycroft, I know I haven’t talked to you in a long time. I know I haven’t been a good brother. I’ve been nothing but cruel to you for the past few years but.. _Please_ , My. _Please_ hold on. I know I haven’t told you, but I need you, and I care about you, and I’m so, _so_ sorry I didn’t tell you that sooner.” Sherlock felt his tears begin anew again, flowing hotly down his cheeks as he closed his mouth to repress a sob.

Mycroft’s shallow breathing slowly began to deepen, encouraging Sherlock to continue.

“I should have, Mycroft. You’re possessive and annoying and… and the best brother anyone could ask for.” Sherlock watched fearfully as Mycroft’s breathing became shallow again and his pulse weakened dramatically. “Please, My. I’m so sorry I didn’t come earlier, brother dear. I’m sorry I’ve done nothing for you but mess things up. But please don’t die, I can’t-” Sherlock’s voice choked off in a sob.

“ _Please_ , My. I don’t want to have to make that call to Mother and Father. My, I wouldn't know how. You have to be there to tell me how. Please don't leave me.” Sherlock tightened his grip on Mycroft’s hand and held it like a lifeline as he began crying again, deep, heavy sobs that shook his frame and made breathing difficult.

Nobody interrupted them. Nothing happened. Sherlock cried until all of his energy was used up and then laid his head on the mattress next to his brother, their hands still entangled as he drifted off into a dreamless slumber.

* * *

“We got it!” A voice yelled joyously as footsteps pounded down the hall.

A lanky man in a labcoat burst into Mycroft’s room, startling Sherlock awake.

“We got it! We got it!” The man handed off a thin vial to a doctor who had been hot on his trail. The man beamed widely as the doctor approached Mycroft’s bed and hooked the vial to a machine that immediately began putting it in the prone-figure’s body.

“We got it, Mr. Holmes. He’s going to be okay!” Sherlock’s heart jumped at the news and he almost started crying again from sheer relief, but was luckily able to hold back as there was company in the room.

 

* * *

“Sherlock.” Mycroft greeted his brother with a raised eyebrow as the younger walked into the same hospital room as he had first entered one week earlier.

“Mycroft.” Sherlock nodded curtly, sitting down with a huff in the chair next to his brother’s bed, looking at the man who was currently propped up into a relaxed sitting position.

“I happened upon something rather interesting this morning while going over last week’s footage.” Mycroft’s eyes swept over his brother, his mind making deductions left and right.

“Oh?” Sherlock’s tone suggested boredom and his body was no different.

“Yes, well, because of the reason I was hospitalized,” Mycroft noticed that Sherlock tensed at that. “Anthea had a camera and microphone installed in the room, so that if anyone came in to try to cause more harm, it would, at the very least, be captured on film.”

Mycroft could see the gears in his brother’s brain turning before an aghast expression announced that Sherlock realized exactly what that meant.

“Caring is a disadvantage, brother dear.” Mycroft’s cold tone chastised.

“While you were… preoccupied, I took the opportunity to glance through some of your files, Mycroft.” Sherlock’s eyes were both cold and mischievous. “This is the _fifth_ time something of this nature has happened. And you’ve never told me. Could that be because you thought I wouldn’t care, and therefore didn’t want to bring up information that might put _you_ at a disadvantage?”

Mycroft glared at him for nearly a minute before finally relenting and casting his gaze to the far wall. “Touché.”

The pair sat in silence for several minutes before Sherlock finally stood and made his way to leave.

“Thank you, Sherlock.” Mycroft’s voice came out quiet and not as confident as usual and when Sherlock turned around to see if he heard that correctly, he saw his brother’s eyes downcast and his shoulders slumped as if he had been defeated.

Sherlock turned without hesitation and walked back to his brother’s side. He slowly reached out and grabbed one of Mycroft’s hands, giving it a long squeeze before just holding it there.

“Anytime, brother dear.” Sherlock offered a weak but encouraging smile to his brother as the older man glanced up to make sure his brother’s gaze wasn’t filled with the hatred he had grown to accept as normal.

“You know, you haven’t said anything like that to me since we were kids…” Mycroft’s voice was soft, his eyes casting back to his blanket as the corners of his mouth twitched down, his whole face twitched in emotions that flickered between sorrow and fear, showing Sherlock just how much his brother expected to be cut down for his outspokenness

“I-” Sherlock cut himself off, not knowing what to say. He wanted to tell Mycroft that he hadn’t said it because he thought it was known, but what had he done in the past three or four years to show Mycroft that he had anything but hatred and resentment for him? Nothing.

Sherlock squeezed Mycroft’s hand again but knew it wasn’t enough. He slowly leaned in, completely unsure of himself, and wrapped his arms around his brother. He felt Mycroft tense up under him, not knowing what to do, before he slowly returned the motion.

The pair awkwardly leaned into each other to wrap their upper limbs around one another’s torsos and looked nervously around the room.

Little by little, the pair relaxed until the affection looked almost natural.

“I love you, brother dear.” Sherlock spoke almost soundlessly over his brother’s shoulder. But Mycroft seemed to have picked it up because he responded with, “And I you, Sherly.”

The pair broke away and glanced around the room for a bit before finally peeking at one another, tight smiles and utter relief sketched into both of their faces.

“Well… I suppose I don’t have to leave just yet.” Sherlock shrugged and looked around, not knowing what to do.

“Oh, really?” Mycroft raised his eyebrows and feigned ignorance. “Well would you like to sit?”

“Oh, yes, thank you.” Sherlock sat back in his chair and twiddled his thumbs.

The pair sat in silence for several minutes. The genuine confusion as to what to do after an emotional outburst of that magnitude filling the room and eating away at both brothers.

“So… um... “ Sherlock looked around until his eyes fell on a hat that had been left in the room by a nurse. “Do you want to play deductions?”

Mycroft stared at him incredulously before a small spark of humor flashed through his eyes and lit up his face.

“That sounds doable.” Mycroft sighed dramatically while shooting his brother the faintest of playful smiles, watching as Sherlock picked up the hat.

“Three cats.” Sherlock tossed it to Mycroft.

“Four. Two are the same color.” He tossed it back.

“She has a son.”

“Or daughter, girls can have short hair too.”

“She’s been married for twenty years.”

“She lives ten miles away.”

“She used to drive but now she rides her bike.”

“She recently switched from coffee to tea.”

The pair continued to toss the hat back and forth, knowing that all the damage done by their sibling rivalry wouldn’t be healed overnight, but that maybe- _just maybe_ \- this was the start to making things the way they should be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thank you, reader, for joining me on this journey. 
> 
> If you have a Sherlock prompt you would like me to write, please suggest it in the comments. I cannot guarantee I will do it, but I'm always looking for new prompts.
> 
> I WILL WRITE:  
> -Angst/heavy angst  
> -Hurt/comfort  
> -Mycroft-focused stories  
> -Dark themes  
> -fluff  
> I WILL NOT WRITE:  
> -Smut  
> -Incest  
> -Romance-based stories  
> -Sherlock/John-focused stories  
> -Mycroft+Anyone relationship stories


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